


Vanity Project

by Yuu_chi



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dual POV, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:20:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26007901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuu_chi/pseuds/Yuu_chi
Summary: Francis is haunted by the ghost of the cult classic that made his career and nearly destroyed him in the process. James is petrified of being just another one-hit action star.In Britain's elite film circles, James Clark Ross has a script and a set of lead roles that need to be filled.It changes everything.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 13
Kudos: 46





	1. Chapter 1

**EXT. EREBUS - NIGHT  
** _Two men stand before an abandoned cathedral. Overrun gardens bracket the path leading to the ornate door, and iron lampposts bathe them in a singular pool of thin light. It is always night in Erebus, and the light is always thin._

\--

Thomas springs it on him midway through lunch, with all the subtlety Francis has learnt to expect after going on thirty years in each other’s company. 

“So,” he says, settling back in his chair so as to kick his bad leg up over his good one, “you might have heard Ross is putting together a new project.” 

Francis, who had only been pried from his house under the promise of a good meal, looks longingly at the coffee he’s starting to wish he’d ordered Irish. “Christ, Thomas. Must you? Right now? Couldn’t you at least wait until I’m done eating first?” 

“And what, give you the opportunity to run? Not a chance. I can’t exactly be expected to keep pace with you these days.” He knocks at his knee, and the clunky sound of state-of-the-art prosthetic rings loudly through the near empty bistro. “Hear me out at least.” 

Francis can think of only one thing he’d like less, and that’s for their quiet little lunch to become a _scene,_ which is absolutely what Thomas will turn it into - the _bastard_ \- if that’s what it takes to get Francis to sit down and shut up. 

Often, Francis thinks having his best friend as his agent was one of the best choices he’s ever made. Other times it feels like the _worst._

Sighing, he sets down his fork. He hadn’t really had much of an appetite anyway. He rarely does so early, when his throat is dry and his head is sore. Growing old is hell on the body. Or maybe it’s the three fingers of whisky he drinks every night before bed. Hard to say, really. 

“James Ross, then?” he asks. “The elder or the younger?” 

Thomas grins at him, teeth crooked from many years of pinching cigarettes between them. “Knew you’d see it my way,” he says, reaching over to clap his shoulder. “Maybe we can make a good sport out of you yet, hey?” 

“Thomas.” 

“The younger,” Thomas says. “Given how well his last film went over with the critics, he thinks it’s time he tries his hand at something a little more challenging. Something a little less quiet.” 

“I see his literary film phase didn’t last long,” Francis says dryly. 

“Wants to dabble in TV now, if you can believe it,” Thomas says. “He’s had a whole first season greenlit and everything.” 

“What, no pilot?” 

Thomas snorts. “When his uncle is _Sir_ John Ross? I don’t think so.” 

“And why, exactly, do you think it’s something I’ll be interested in? Television, really, Thomas?” 

“Oh, come off it,” Thomas says. “It’s been _months_ since you had any sort of work. And Ross asked for you _by name._ This is going to be big. Real big, if Ross has it his way, and gets the people he wants. You can hardly afford to turn down an opportunity like that.” 

“I can and I will,” Francis replies, a touch snidely. A nearby waiter ghosts by, pausing to offer them refills on their coffee, but Francis waves him away impatiently. “I’m not that sort of actor anymore. I can scarcely stand to do films, and you expect me to do _TV?”_

“Well, what sort of actor _are you_ then?” Thomas snaps. “Fuck, Francis, you haven’t been on a stage since this time last year, and you’ve hardly been knocking down my door with a list of productions you want in on. Half the time I think if I just left you to yourself, you’d be happy to fade off into obscurity.” He pitches his voice reedy and high and says, _“Francis Crozier who? Oh, you mean that Irish bloke who starred in that old war movie my mum likes? He’s still alive?”_

“You’re about twenty years too late. Obscurity caught up to me a long time ago,” Francis says, reaching for his coffee. It’s cold as ice by now and tastes like shit, but he’s had worse, much worse, really, in an endless parade of dressing rooms and backstage sets over the years. 

“You might be happy to watch your career wither and die, but I am not,” Thomas says. He bends down, rustling through his bag, and a moment later he remerges to slap a fat stack of papers on the tabletop between them, nearly upsetting the water pitcher. “Read the proposal, Francis, or I’m going invite you out for lunch again every day this week until you do.” 

Thomas gets to his feet, wobbling only slightly, and strides off to settle their bill before Francis can think of an appropriately witty retort. Francis is left alone at their table with only the dregs of his coffee and Ross’s bloody proposal for company. 

Francis looks to the heavens, sighs, and picks it up.

\--

Back home, Francis pours himself a generous glass of whisky, settles on the living room couch, and reads the proposal from cover to cover. When he’s done he sits for a moment, staring blankly at the empty wall opposite, then knocks back the rest of his drink and reads it again. 

It’s good. That shouldn’t be a surprise, really. James Ross takes after his uncle in many aspects, and an abundance of talent is just one of them. Even Francis, who’s been nursing a festering wound towards John Ross for the better part of his most of his career, has to admit that much. 

These days, Francis doesn’t find himself watching a lot of TV, but a lifetime in this industry has given him a pretty good grasp on solid storytelling. And this is what Ross’s damned script is; a story, a fucking compelling one, if Francis is being truthful. 

It’s a twisted, horrific exploration of humanity in a town cursed to darkness, and what desperate people will do in even more desperate situations. The outline is brief but comprehensive, and he doesn’t need the guiding hand of the proposal to know what character has been written with him specifically in mind. 

Francis drops the proposal to the coffee table, plucking his reading glasses off to pinch the bridge of his nose where a headache is just starting to bloom. _Erebus,_ reads the front page in thick, bold font, eye catching and memorable. 

“Fuck,” Francis mutters, and hauls himself out of his seat to find his phone. 

_“Read it, have you?”_ Thomas says immediately after he picks up. He sounds unbearably smug, and Francis hates that he knows him so well. 

“Who else has signed on?” Francis asks. 

_“John Franklin accepted the part of the mayor,”_ Thomas says, quick like pulling off a band-aid. _“But I’m sure I can trust you to be professional about it.”_

Francis grimaces. “It’s been years, Thomas. I can be civil.” 

_“Civil is not a word anybody would use to describe you.”_

“I’m not going to punch the man, if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

_“I’d hope not. You were friends, once. Try and remember that at least.”_

Francis thinks it’s better for all involved if he does not try and remember the fact they were friends once, actually, nor why they are no longer. “Who else?” 

Through the line, he can hear the rustle of Thomas flipping through papers. _“There’s a few other midlist actors you’ve worked with before. Cornelius Hickey, John Bridgens. A couple more.”_

Francis can take or leave Hickey, but he has nothing but fondness for Bridgens. The proposal, however, had called for three main characters - Francis’s huntsman, John Franklin’s mayor, and a young man determined to save the town, even if it cost him himself. Twenty years ago, that role would have been his. Now his closest friends write him the character of a hermit recluse, ostracised by the town who once revered him.

He doesn’t think James Ross _intended_ to hit too close to home, but it lands all the same. 

“And the third lead?” he presses. 

_“This’ll blow your socks off,”_ Thomas says, and Francis can hear the stretch of his grin. _“Are you sitting down?”_

“I’ll take my chances,” Francis says dryly. 

_“Apparently we’re to be graced with the presence of the one and only James Fitzjames! In the flesh, no less!”_

It doesn’t quite knock Francis’s socks off, but it certainly does take him aback. “Wasn’t he in America? Last I heard, he was headlining that, what was it called… that blockbuster with the ship?” 

_“Didn’t sign on for the next movie. Left the lot of them floundering around. Might have to cancel the whole franchise as a result.”_ Thomas sounds absolutely _delighted_ at the prospect. He’s never cared much for Hollywood blockbusters of any variety. _“This is his first project since.”_

“And James - Ross, not Fitzjames - thinks he’s the right choice for this show?” Francis asks, raising a brow. “I fail to see how a man known for his tendency to play action heroes is going to hold up a role in a horror-suspense.” 

_“He seems to have high hopes,”_ Thomas says. _“At the very least, it’s sure to be entertaining.”_

Francis pulls the phone away from his ear, tapping it absently against his chin as he thinks. Thomas had been right. It’s not like his dance card is exactly full these days. He can’t remember the last time a director with any real clout reached out to him and offered a role better than a bit piece in some domestic drama or another. 

Years ago, Francis would not have thought twice before signing his name to _Erebus._ Years ago, he was a better version of himself, surely, and he’ll never be that man again, but there’s nothing to stop him from following that man’s lead. 

_“Francis? You still there?”_

Francis presses the phone back to his ear. “Tell James I’ll do it,” he says. “I’m sure he’ll about piss his pants in glee.” 

Thomas cackles down the line. _“I knew you had some spirit left in you,”_ he says. _“I’d have hated to dump you as a client just because you’d turned into a grumpy old bastard.”_

“I’ve always been a grumpy old bastard,” Francis says, amused. “Doesn’t mean I can’t still act, too.”

_“Cheers to that,”_ Thomas says. _“Alright, I’ll get the ball rolling along. Keep an eye on your phone, will you? Going to have a lot going on from now on.”_

“Yeah, yeah,” Francis grouses. “Talk to you soon, Thomas.” 

After he hangs up, he turns, looking back to where the abandoned proposal sits, his glasses askew atop it. There’s already a slight stain on one of the corners from where his whiskey glass had pressed. It’s a strange sight, honestly; a fresh project welcomed in his home. Francis can’t be sure whether he likes it or not. 

He plucks up his empty glass, and swirls around the dregs, considering. 

If he’s going to be working again, he probably ought to begin cutting back. A glass or so a day isn’t any harm when most of his day is spent at home, but his acting skills are already unsteady enough without the added rust of alcohol to top it off. 

That’s for tomorrow though, and the long days that chase after it. For now, Francis has just made a monumental decision that will either save his crumbling career or ruin it entirely. 

He refills his glass from the decanter on the mantelpiece, just a bit more than two fingers full. He stands before his windows, curtain cracked to see the dreary English sun. Somewhere out there, James Ross is very anxiously awaiting a call, and Thomas is setting into motion the slow grind of Francis’s eventual return to the public eye, if not the relevance that often comes with it. 

Outside, a car horn shrieks, loud and forgotten in his quiet suburban street. 

Francis grimaces, holding his glass aloft. “Cheers to that,” he says, and knocks it back.

\--

It’s the better part of a month before James Ross finally calls for a table read, and the very first chance for Francis to meet his co-stars face to face. Some for the first time, and some in a smattering of reunions both fair and foul.

Francis has always liked the first table reads, honestly. It’s when a project truly begins to feel like it’s fact more than fiction. Everything before that, all the contracts that need signing and the papers that need reading - that’s just politics, and Francis has never had much patience for politics of any kind. 

The evening before, Thomas comes over to his house bearing a fresh bottle of champagne he knows Francis doesn’t even like. It doesn’t stop him from pouring the two of them sparkling flutes full, as if they’re celebrating something worthwhile. 

“Ready?” he asks, settling into the cosy armchair by the empty fireplace. It’s a nice armchair. Thomas had laid claim to it years ago now, back before he even lost the damn leg that gave him an excuse to claim whatever chair he wanted. “All set for your first day back at school?” 

Francis rolls his eyes, nursing his glass between thick fingers. “I intend to play as nice as I’m able, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

Thomas grins. “It’s been a while since you’ve done one of these,” he says. “Think you’re up for it?” 

“It’s not so hard to remember how to read, Thomas. I may be old, but my facilities have not started to go yet.” 

“Alright, you smartass, see if I offer you a consoling shoulder again.” Thomas kicks his feet up on the ottoman that has more holes to it than most people have personality. “Just remember, if all goes well you’re going to be working with this lot for a long while yet, so try and get on, yeah?” 

“I’ll manage,” Francis says. “I’ve managed before, I’ll manage again. It’s all muscle memory, really.” 

He takes a sip of the champagne. It tastes as ridiculous as he’d expected. He doesn’t know why Thomas insists on this tradition of bequeathing him the worst alcohol imaginable every time Francis starts a new project. It’s not like Francis’s preferences are exactly subtle, when it comes to this. 

Thomas is eyeing him speculatively when Francis looks up. He sighs. “What now?” 

“Nothing, nothing,” Thomas says. A pause. Then, “I was just wondering if you were planning on sticking by your word.” 

“What word?” 

“The word you gave about not punching John Franklin.” 

Francis laughs, settling onto the corner of the sofa opposite him. “If I was going to punch anybody, it might as well be Hickey.” 

“What? No Irish camaraderie?” 

“You ever been in a room with him for more than five minutes before?” Francis asks. 

“Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure. The one time I met him, he seemed affable enough, if a bit smug.” 

“I knew someone in university who studied philosophy. Was a big fan of Darwinism and all other kinds of unpleasant horseshit. Always thought he was the smartest man in a room. Had beady little eyes that looked like he was scheming.” 

Thomas raises a brow. “Oh?” 

“Hickey is worse,” Francis says blandly. “Makes you really consider whether Darwinism might be right after all, and at which point during a throttling a man might lose his smarmy grin.” 

Thomas laughs, throwing back his head as his throat bobs in delight. “Is that right?” he asks. “And this old university mate of yours? What happened to him?” 

“Last I heard, he’d lost his tenure for ‘relations’ with a student,” Francis says. “Not even smart enough to think with the brain above the belt, in the end.” 

“Sounds like he got what was coming,” Thomas says. “With any luck, Hickey will too, if he’s half the man you say he is. Hopefully it’ll be _after_ you clean up all the nominations for _Erebus.”_

“You really think it’s that good then? _Erebus?”_

Thomas falls into a contemplative quiet, fingers tapping on the arm of his chair. After a moment, he says, “I think it has a real shot. With James Ross at the helm, and the lot of you doing the heavy lifting on screen? I really, really think it could be.” 

“Or,” Francis says, “it could be another _Terror.”_

Thomas’s scowl is thunderous and immediate. He sits upright, pointing at Francis with the hand cradling his glass, threatening to slosh champagne all down his shirt. “Don’t you even start with me,” he warns. “James Ross is not his uncle, and there’s not going to be another _Terror_ so long as I’m your agent.” 

Francis tries for a smile, but it’s thin and wane. “Better not be,” he says. “I think one is more than enough for any man. Another, and I’ll really retire.” 

“You’re not even fifty yet, don’t you think about retiring, you bastard.” 

“Six months off,” Francis remarks. He takes another sip of the champagne, pulls a face, and finally sets it aside. “Thank god for John Franklin, or else I might’ve been the oldest actor on this damned show.” 

“He’ll be sixty before your fifty, and you just know he’s going to make some ridiculous point about how many more years of acting he has in him still,” Thomas says. “If you retire first, he’ll be insufferable about it.” 

Thinking too much about John Franklin is quickly souring Francis’s mood so he says, “What do you know of Fitzjames? Other than his Hollywood profile, I mean.” 

Thomas gives a contemplative noise. He makes a pointed gesture until Francis rolls his eyes and passes over the bottle so he might fill up again. “Hard to say,” Thomas says. “Haven’t really had any clients who’ve worked with him before, what with the whole dashing off overseas the first chance he got. Frankly, I’m surprised he’s decided to come back already.” 

“It does seem like a bit of a turnaround from his usual projects,” Francis says. “Can’t imagine what he thinks to get out of it.” 

“Either way, if Ross vouches for him, I’m all in,” Thomas says. “Haven’t known the man to be a bad judge of character yet. Well, other than the blind spot he has for his uncle, but that’s family for you.” 

The antique clock that had been gifted to Francis many years ago now chimes softly atop the mantlepiece, and Francis frowns as he sees the hands have crept well into the evening when he wasn’t paying attention. He won’t sleep well tonight, he knows. He never does the night before. 

“Well, I think that’s my cue.” Thomas groans as he gets to his feet, stumbling a little bit as he fights for balance, waving Francis’s hands away irritably. “I’ll be here tomorrow morning bright and early. If you get it into your head to be difficult, don’t forget I have a key.” 

“Go home, Thomas,” Francis sighs, plucking Thomas’s coat from the back of the sofa and tossing it at home. “Tell Molly I said hello, will you?” 

“Like she’ll want to hear from you,” Thomas says, grinning. He shows himself out, pausing briefly only to give Francis a rare but reassuring pat on the shoulder before the brisk late-evening London air claims him. 

Francis stands in the doorway, watching Thomas’s car wind through the empty streets. It’s a clear night, sky dark and what little stars are visible intensely bright. Francis tucks his hands into his sleeves and enjoys it for a long, lingering moment before he reluctantly returns to the house. 

Their empty champagne glasses stand adjacent to the mostly full bottle on the coffee table. Francis collects them, glasses in one hand, champagne in the other, and retreats to the kitchen. The glasses go in the sink and the bottle, after much deliberation, goes to the fridge. 

He’d considered pouring it down the drain, but it’d seemed a waste. He’ll find some use for it or another, he’s sure. 

Upstairs, he shirks off his shirt and pulls on a pair of pyjama pants with more than one hole in them at this point. The cold sheets of his bed are exceptionally uninviting, but Francis reluctantly settles into them anyway. Some sleep, even if only a wink or two, is better than none. Rolling over, he reaches for the lamp only to pause. 

The pages of James Ross’s proposal are long crumpled and dogeared from too many reads at this point. _Erebus,_ the title page reminds him, the long shadows falling from the window above the bed painting it almost as dark as its namesake. 

It’s the kind of project that could be nothing. Just another faded credit to his name. 

It’s the kind of project that could be _everything._ Hope is a tentative seed stuck stubbornly in the cage of his ribs that Francis no longer has the strength to nurse to bloom. 

Francis breathes out, long and slow. He flicks off the light.

Darkness falls like the drop of a stage curtain. 

\--

The table read is held in the spacious flat James Ross has quaintly dubbed a ‘studio’. Privately, Francis thinks it has rather more rooms than a studio implies, but it’s not his first time here, nor, if things go according to plan, will it be his last. 

Ross greets him at the door, grinning broadly and pulling him in for a brief, manly hug. “Francis!” he exclaims. “God, it’s good to see you. I can’t even begin to tell you how thrilled I was when Thomas said you were interested in _Erebus.”_

Despite himself, Francis smiles. “It’s good work, James,” he says. “Although I’m a bit concerned how much of a mean bastard the part you wrote for me seems.” 

“Not _mean,”_ Ross protests. “Grumpy, a little, just like his actor. He’s a deeply misunderstood man in a bad situation doing his best. I’m sure we can all relate to that.” 

“It’s too early for your drama,” Francis groans. “Let me in, will you? Thomas is probably waiting in the car, watching to make sure I don’t make a run for it.” 

“Was that likely?” Ross laughs, but steps back, allowing Francis inside and closing the door firmly behind him. “Come on, you’re not the first here. Looks like somebody is even more of a stickler for punctuality than you.” 

Francis doesn’t correct Ross’s conflation of his early arrival with punctuality rather than insomnia. Still, it’s a good twenty minutes before the given time of the read, and, curious, he trails after Ross into the living area where a sprawling table dominates the room, surrounded on all sides by uncomfortable looking chairs. In one of them sits a man whose face Francis is only familiar with from its ever-increasing presence in the box office. 

James Fitzjames gets to his feet hastily as they enter the room, somehow managing to look both graceful and eager all at once.

“I’m sure neither of you need introductions, but allow me anyway,” Ross says cheerfully. “James, this is my dear friend Francis Crozier, of course. Francis, the Britain's prodigal son himself - the one and only James Fitzjames!” 

Britain’s prodigal son himself smiles neatly and offers Francis a hand. “Please, call me James. It’s a pleasure to finally get the honour to meet you.” 

Francis raises a brow and reaches out to accept his offered palm. “Francis. I’m afraid to ask what that means.” He glances to Ross. “You haven’t been telling tales again, have you?” 

Ross spreads his arms, face innocent. “I’m a writer, Francis. Telling tales is what I do! They’ve all been good, rest assured.” 

“Mostly,” James says, affably teasing, and Ross shoots him a mock betrayed look. He lets go of Francis’s hand. “But no, I’m a great admirer of your work.” 

An unpleasant premonition settles in the pit of Francis’s stomach. Striding to keep his expression straight, he says, “Oh? You are?” 

James stands tall, folding his hands behind his back. “You were exceptional in _Terror._ Truly worthy of all the accolades.” 

Francis’s smile becomes stilted. “Yes, so I often hear,” he says. “I’m afraid I can’t say the same. I don’t tend to watch a lot of action films.” 

A passing frown graces James’s face, pulling his mouth thin and tight, but it’s banished just as quick. “Well, my hope is that I’ll be able to earn your praise with _Erebus,_ then.” 

“As is mine,” Francis says, the lingering reminder of _Terror_ making him perhaps more unkind than James deserves. 

James looks at him, taken aback. In the background, the doorbell rings. “I’ll be just a moment,” Ross says, forcefully chipper as if it can dispel the sudden tension in the room, and ducks out into the hallway, leaving them alone. 

Francis drops into the chair marked for him, set with a script and a bottle of fresh water, and takes the chance to surreptitiously examine James while his attention is pulled momentarily elsewhere. 

He’s tall, although most men are when compared to Francis, and he carries himself with a confidence that Francis is not yet sure is justly earnt. He’s attractive. Francis had known he would be, but it’s always a curious thing to see in the flesh. It’s subtle; the fine bones of his face, the darkness of his eyes. None of that polished, expensive flair that dominates the glossy pages of American gossip rags. No, whatever position it was he earnt in that in that “Most Attractive Celebrity” list Hollywood loved to tout, he’d gotten there under his own steam. 

His demeanour though - that’s another thing entirely. 

As if feeling his stare, James glances towards him. Francis does not allow himself to fluster at being caught, merely holding his gaze a moment longer before casually flipping open his script. 

There’s a pause. By the door, Ross is greeting a flow of newcomers with his usual charm and exuberance, although none of them have yet filtered into the sitting area and James and Francis remain alone. A moment later there’s the uncertain scrape of James pulling free his chair two seats down from Francis. “Forgive me for saying,” he says, “but I must admit I was surprised when I heard you’d agreed to be in _Erebus._ It doesn’t much fit with the rest of your filmography.” 

Francis flips a page and does not look up. “I could say the same for you,” he says. Then, before James can take that as an invitation to explain. “James is an old friend.” This time he does look up and wryly adds, “Ross, that is. Not yourself.” 

James smiles. “In the immediate crew alone, we have two James’s and three Johns. I can see this causing some issues.” 

“That’s what happens when you pull half your cast from central London,” Francis says. 

“Not you though,” James says. 

“No,” Francis agrees. “And Hickey too, supposedly.” 

“Supposedly?” 

Francis has long had suspicions that Cornelius Hickey is not nearly so Irish as his name implies, but he’s not about to say as much aloud. “Have you worked with anybody else before?” 

“From the cast, you mean? I worked with John once before I left England. John Franklin, I mean.” He says his name with a great respect that Francis doesn’t think the man is due at all. “I learnt a lot from that.” 

“Is that so?” Francis asks, tone tepid. 

James frowns at him and sits up straighter. “Is there something wrong with that?” For the first time there’s an element of challenge in his voice. “Something you want to add?” 

Francis looks back to his script. “No. Not at all.” 

In the hallway, somebody laughs, loud and cheerful. James says, “From my experience, John is an excellent actor and an even better man.” 

_We’ve had very different experiences,_ Francis thinks, but is wise enough not to say. “I’m glad to hear it,” he says instead. 

James looks distinctly disgruntled now. It’s a thing to behold, really, watching the admiration from before when he’d greeted Francis and seen only the ghost of _Terror_ behind him slowly crumble to dust. Francis doesn’t think he’ll ever get sick of failing to meet these expectations people set for him, as if he ought to be grateful for every acknowledgement of the film that built his career and, for a time, demolished his life. 

Footsteps sound in the doorway and Francis looks up to see a smattering of people bustling in, looking bright eyed and cheerful, riding high on the energy of a first day at work on a new project. At the head is none other than Cornelius Hickey, and when he lays eyes on Francis his perpetual smirk grows into a grin

“Well, if isn’t Francis Crozier,” he says, as if it’s at all a surprise. “How long has it been? Two years? Three?” 

“Not long enough,” Francis says dryly, and Hickey’s grin widens. 

Hickey rounds the table, dropping into the chair across from him. “I’ve missed you,” he says with sincerity. “All these other blokes and their cutting words? Nothing on you, Francis.” 

Francis isn’t paying attention. Without Hickey’s lanky frame to block the view, John Franklin lingers in the doorway. When he realizes Francis has noticed him, his uncertain expression blooms flawlessly into polite cheer. “As Cornelius said,” he says, warm and welcoming. “It’s good to see you again, Francis.” 

Francis will give James’s assessment of John Franklin this; he _is_ an excellent actor. 

Reluctantly, Francis stands and allows John to shake his hand too, conscious of the eyes all around them. “John, good to see you too,” he lies. 

The minute tightening of the lines by John’s eyes tell him that he isn’t believed for a moment. “Never would have thought we’d be working together again like this,” John says. “If it wasn’t for Thomas, I’d have thought you’d retired.” 

“Not before you,” Francis says. “I have _some_ reputation left.” 

He turns, parting from John to see a different, far more likeable John lurking quietly behind him. This time, when he pats John Bridgens on the shoulder, his welcome is sincere, and the soft smile Bridgens rewards him with relaxes some of the unruly tension tightening his gut like overwrought elastic. 

Ross swans back into the room as the table is full of chatter, people introducing themselves or reuniting as they seek out their seats, eagerly flipping through their scripts. “I believe that’s everyone here,” Ross says brightly. “Glad to see we have a full table for today. Welcome, everybody, to the first reading of _Erebus!”_

A smattering of applause breaks like a wave over the room. From the corner of his eye, Francis can see James clapping quietly alongside everybody else, and across the room John sitting still, hands neatly folded atop the tabletop but diplomatic smile firmly in place. 

“Now,” Ross says, as he sinks into his chair at the head of the table. “We all know why we’re here. We’ve got several long months ahead of us, and I say let’s not waste any more time. I’m as eager to see you bring these characters to life as you hopefully are to play them! If we’re all settled, let’s begin.” 

There’s the familiar sound of a dozen scripts being rustled open in tandem, the room immediately falling into a professional silence that Francis is so intimately familiar with from a dozen reads just like this; patient and thin all at once, draping about him like a favoured shawl. 

It’s a punch to the gut to realize how much he’s missed it. 

Ross clears his throat. “Exterior Erebus, night,” he says, voice clear as a church bell. “Two men stand before an abandoned cathedral...” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly: I'm not English, but I am Australian which is the cooler, more improved cousin. I might at times compromise on Britishisms for the sake of readability.
> 
> Secondly: If it is not obvious, I am not in any way involved in the acting industry. I have googled extensively, and will try my hardest to approach this AU with as much realism as I can, but a certain amount of suspension of disbelief may be needed if you ARE familiar with the industry, and I ask you to please be kind to me.
> 
> Thirdly, and most importantly: I love Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier more than life itself.
> 
> Twitter: @doingwritebyme  
> Tumblr: glenflower


	2. Chapter 2

**Adam:** I do not believe that what I say will change anything. 

**Isaac:** Make the effort, and we might all be surprised. Gods, I hope we’re surprised. 

**Adam:** You have too much faith in this. In me. 

**Isaac:** Expectations are not faith. You need one more than the other, or you’ll never make an effort to change anything at all. 

\--

The table read does not go nearly as well as James had hoped. 

The script is good, and the crew is excellent. There is no denying that. Several times over the length of the session, he’d gotten genuine _chills_ listening to his fellow cast members simply read their parts. It’s always a great honour to work with other actors who are truly talented in their craft, and James isn’t nearly so arrogant as to not realize he is standing amid an _abundance_ of talent.

What he had not forseen, perhaps, is that the man whom he has admired greatly might actually be an insufferable dick. 

After the read, while the crew mingles together, excitedly trading stories and hopes for the upcoming show, James sees Francis Crozier politely make his excuses to Ross, pick up his coat from the back of his chair, and vanish out the front door barely a moment later. Nobody else seems to notice, too invested in conversations people actually _want_ to be having, and if Ross himself minds it doesn’t show on his perpetually cheerful face, but James is _aghast._

The sheer gall of it, the _disrespect,_ lays him flat. 

A hand settles on his elbow and James looks to the side to see John has appeared while his attention was elsewhere. “James,” he says, smiling. “I came to say hello, but by your expression I’m not sure it’s welcome.” 

Hastily, James wipes his face of whatever it is that’s creasing it. “Of course not,” he says. “You know I’m always glad to see you.” 

“Not me then,” John muses. His eyes trail to the door, then, like a magnet, to the empty back of Francis’s chair. It doesn’t take him more than a moment to put the pieces together. “Ah. I see.” 

James debates keeping his silence, but in the end he’s not strong enough. “Have you worked with him before?” 

John smiles, but it’s polite and lacks the depth that James has come to expect from him. “Francis and I are old friends,” he says. “Well, in a manner of speaking anyway.” 

“What kind of manner of speaking?” 

John shakes his head, giving James’s elbow a gentle squeeze before releasing it. “Don’t judge him too harshly,” he says, which is not at all what James had asked. “Francis is very good at what he does, when he wants to be.” 

James tries very hard not to pull a face. “‘What he does’? Would that be acting, or being intolerably rude to every person in the room?” 

“James,” John scolds lightly. “He’s a veteran in this industry.” 

“So are you,” James points out. “I don’t see you behaving like that.” 

For a moment, John looks pleased, just a bit. “Different circumstances to consider.” He pats James’s shoulder before parting entirely. “For now, don’t worry about Francis. Let me introduce you to some of the others. Properly, this time.” 

James obediently allows himself to be ferried about the room, shaking hand after hand of the people he’ll be working with for the foreseeable future and, if things go well, beyond that too. People respond to meeting him with John at his side far differently than they do when it’s just him; more receptive, less judgement in their eyes. He doesn’t have to work nearly as hard to overcome the wall his time in Hollywood has built between him and his countrymates. 

Honestly, he’s more thankful to John Franklin than he thinks he’ll ever be able to express. He doesn’t know whether he could have had the backbone to sign onto this project without the guarantee of John here to act as a buffer. He’d like to think he could have managed, and perhaps it’s even true, but his gratitude remains. 

James stays in Ross’s studio for close to two hours after the reading is finished. By the time he finally shows himself to the door, the only people remaining are a few of Ross’s close friends, and James is too wary of being seen as an interloper to intrude, despite John’s genuine invitation for him to stay. 

“Is your agent picking you up?” Ross asks at the door. “It’s still a bit early for you to walk down the street and not cause a ruckus.” 

James smiles wanly as he shrugs into his coat. “I’ll get a cab,” he says. “My agent is a busy woman. She has confidence I can manage to get home without getting kidnapped, at the very least.” 

Ross insists on calling him a cab himself, and by the time James manages to make the trek across half the city and back to his own flat, he’s well and truly exhausted. 

First table reads are always like that, he knows. He’s always wondered if it’s the kind of thing that grows easier with experience, but he’s been in this game for over ten years now, and he’s starting to think this is just the way it is. For him, at the very least. 

He barely has the door open before Fagin is at his ankles, twisting about and meowing for attention as if he’d left her for an eternity rather than a day. James sighs, and bends down to scoop her up, wincing as she settles her claws firmly in his chest, purring quite contently all the while. He’ll have scratches there in the morning, he’s certain, but that’s the price one pays when they adopt a mongrel of a cat from the local pound because the sheer loneliness of their fresh flat is driving them to desperation. 

Inside, he puts the kettle to boil and manages to set Fagin down atop the kitchen table where she stays only because she knows he’ll be joining her soon enough. It takes but a moment to make a cup of tea, and then he pulls the script from his bag and settles down to go through it once more. 

Given that James is playing the main character, it really is no surprise that he gets the most screen time. Still, James finds himself a little daunted as he trails his finger along the page, chasing out his character’s name over and over again like a treasure hunt. He’s starred in plenty of feature films - eight, if anybody thought to ask - but this will be his first _real_ role in a television series, especially one shot on home soil. 

This is just episode one. In this season alone, there’s set to be nine more. And then… 

No. Best not think about the prospect of ‘and then’. 

By his elbow, his phone rings, and James doesn’t need to glance at the screen to know who it is. 

“Hello?” 

_“How did it go?”_ Silna asks, blunt as a brick is heavy. 

James lets the script fall closed and leans back, placing one hand in Fagin’s fur to settle her as she stirs. “Well, I think,” he says. “Ross certainly seemed to think so.” 

_“I didn’t ask what Ross thought, I asked what you did.”_

Despite himself, James smiles, just slightly. “I think you were right. This really could be something special, if everything goes well.” 

Silna makes an approving noise. _“And what about your co-stars?”_

“John was there, of course. He was as kind as always.” James gently drums his fingers on the tabletop. “I finally got the chance to meet Francis Crozier.” 

_“You don’t sound impressed.”_

James pauses to take a sip of his tea as he carefully considers his words, less for Silna’s sake and more for his own. “John vouched for him,” he says after a moment. “But he seemed nothing more than a grumpy old man.” 

_“Most actors his age are,”_ Silna replies. _“That’s the entitlement jumping out.”_

“Well, he certainly didn’t make any efforts to pretend otherwise. You should have heard the things he said to me.” 

_“That bad?”_ Silna asks. _“Do I need to look up and see who his agent is?”_

James sighs. “No, don’t. He didn’t pick a fight or anything, if that’s what you were worried about. More…” James doesn’t have the words for the callously dismissive way Francis had spoken to him. Rude, but not necessarily cruel. “It’s not a problem. We’ll find a way to work together.” 

_“Put that silver tongue of yours to some use,”_ Silna says. _“Your reputation doesn’t mean much over here, James. Francis Crozier has been a staple in the British acting scene for thirty years. Better that this doesn’t become a concern.”_

“It won’t,” James says, a little stiffly. “I _am_ a professional.” 

Silna snorts. _“I know that better than anyone,”_ she says. _“Don’t get huffy.”_

“I’m not huffy. I’m -” 

There’s the distant sound of a second voice down the line in and Silna says, _“I’ve got to go. I’ll call again once I’ve got more info from Ross about the filming next month.”_

James, who knows Silna is a busy woman with much to juggle, does not hold the short phone call against her even if he might have liked longer. “Alright. Goodbye.” 

She hangs up with another word. James sits at the table, nursing his tea with one hand and his cat with the other. The secluded estate in which his flat resides is too far for the noise of road traffic to break through, and his neighbours are other famous people, as respectful and reserved as he is himself. 

The kitchen is graveyard silence and, as he has been since he returned to the country, James is alone. 

\--

James spends the next few weeks immersing himself in the world of _Erebus,_ pacing the floor of his living room as he rattles his lines, Fagin chasing after his heels on each turn he makes. 

James’s character, Adam, is a complicated man with a complicated past, and James is _determined_ to give him all the depth that Ross has clearly written into him, lurking just beneath the surface. Already, James can feel a drastic shift between _Erebus_ and his past projects, subtle but distinct. 

When James had been headlining those wretched _Flagship Falling_ movies nobody had expected him to _actually_ act with any real emotional depth. He’d tried, of course, because never let it be said that he did things by half measures, but the ever changing parade of directors had little care for it, and James had realised quickly that whatever strides he made in character development were going to be offset in the next scene anyway, when he cut down the hundredth no-name extra with a cutlass. 

_Erebus_ wouldn’t be like that. Ross’s reputation had been what lured him in, and John’s established history as a much beloved quality actor had convinced him. _Erebus_ would be the salve to the sanded down edges of his career that James sorely needs. 

It _has_ to be. 

When the first day of filming finally rolls around, James is half out of his mind with the worst mix of nerves and hope. He’s positively sick with it, honestly, and as he climbs into Silna’s car she lets out a sigh with all the strength of a gust of wind. 

“Please tell me you slept,” she says, peeling away from the curb. 

“I did, in fact,” James says defensively, buckling in but refusing to meet her eye. He had slept rather well actually, and if it was entirely down to the emergency prescription for sleeping medication he hadn’t yet told Silna he had, that was neither here nor there. 

James isn’t about to walk onto set for the first time without a solid seven hours under his belt. That isn’t the kind of first impression he’s eager to make. 

Silna looks sceptical, but she doesn’t argue with him. “Please don’t puke in the car,” she says. “You know I’d let you get away with a lot of things, but that isn’t one of them.” 

James offers her a smile he doesn’t feel. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

When they arrive at the filming lot, things are already in full swing. James has an unreasonably panicked moment that they’re late, but as they walk through the scattered crowd, he’s relieved to find that everybody’s expressions are focussed but not stressed. That’ll change in time, he knows, the longer filming stretches on and the more hiccups flutter into existence, but so far it looks like a smooth start, and James breathes a sigh of relief. 

Silna reaches out and snags a passing shoulder, dragging the man to a stop. “Which way is Ross?” 

The man lowers the mic on his headset and looks from her to James, and seemingly realises who he is. “Oh! Right this way, come with me!” They’re led through the rigmarole of production towards the back where the fitting rooms and wardrobe and such reside. The further they’re drawn through the set, the more James finds himself relaxing as muscle memory sets in. 

He spots Ross before Silna does, conversing seriously with a small gathering of people James passably remembers being introduced to as the rest of the production team. Ross pauses in whatever he’s discussing and beams at him, welcoming and warm. 

“Right on time!” he says. “I hope you had no trouble getting here?” 

“I might be unfamiliar with a lot of the industry this side of the ocean, but Silna’s an expert wherever she goes,” James says.

Ross turns to shake her hand. “Your agent?” 

“Lucky for him,” Silna says, dry and quick. 

Ross doesn’t bat an eye at her response. “I’d say, it certainly seems so. Do you plan to stay?”

Silna shakes her head. “Not unless James needs me, but he’s a big boy. I’ve got some other errands to do.” 

Ross nods amicably. “You know where to find us.” To James, he says, “They’re waiting in wardrobe for you, I believe. All going according to plan, we’ll start shooting at ten.” 

Before she leaves, Silna drags him aside, a stern but comforting hand on his elbow. There’s never precisely a place for privacy on a set like this, but she manages to find them a quiet spot anyway, people passing them by with barely a glance. “Do you need a pep talk?” 

James smiles. “From you? I didn’t know such a thing existed.” 

“It can if it needs to,” she says. “I’m not going to leave you stranded.” 

“Do I seem stranded? I’m fine, Silna. You can stop worrying. Things aren’t so different here than they are in Hollywood. Easier, probably.” 

“Not stranded,” she says. “Overwhelmed, maybe.” 

There is precious little James dislikes more than being read so clearly, not when he makes his money off his ability to be as unreadable as he pleases. Silna, he supposes, gets a pass. She was the one to drag him out of the quicksand hell that had become his career, after all. 

“I’m fine,” he says. “I don’t need to be babysat.” 

She studies him with a quiet, critical eye for a moment before stepping away. “Call me if Ross starts anything,” she says. “Or if anybody starts anything.” 

“Nobody’s going to start anything,” he says. “We’re here to film, not to fight.” 

After Silna leaves, James politely escorts himself towards wardrobe where he can see a few other actors being fitted for the final touches to their costume. Hickey is having his coat painstakingly adjusted by a very tired looking assistant, and he looks up, smiling as he catches sight of him approaching. “If it isn’t the star of the show,” he drawls. “Come to join the rest of lowlifes, have you?” 

It sounds like a jest. James is _mostly_ certain it’s a jest. He smiles, something polished by years of wearing a mask. “Seemed like you could all use some company.” 

“Well, always room in the gutter for one more,” Hickey says cheerfully. He holds up his arms to show off his professionally tattered shirt. “What do you think? Do I look the part?” 

“Stop moving,” snaps the man assisting him. “I’ve got pins, Cornelius.” 

Hickey rolls his eyes. “Oh, lighten up, Billy. It’s fine. You’ve done fine. Nobody’s going to slander your handiwork.” 

Billy huffs loudly but lets off his fussing, turning around to James. When his eyes light upon his face he winces. “Oh, um. You’d be further in. Jopson is just finishing up with Mr. Crozier now, I believe. Sir.” 

Behind Billy, Hickey says, “Excuse him. He’s new. Hasn’t quite got the nerves under control yet.” 

Billy twists on the spot to shoot him a poisonous look, and James takes the chance to slink away before he accidentally becomes embroiled in their bickering. There’s a door just past where Billy had motioned, and James cracks it open and steps inside. He’s greeted with an array of costumes awaiting wearing and there, in the centre of the carefully organized chaos, Francis Crozier. 

James pauses in the doorway, taken off guard and ill prepared for such a meeting. Francis is sitting at the cluttered table in full costume, his script open on his knee although he doesn’t appear to be paying much attention to it, and he looks up, catching James’s eye as he stands frozen in the doorway. Silence lingers for a moment, awkward and uncomfortable, before he says, “Good morning.” 

James clears his throat and summons his manners, pasting on his shiniest smile. “I’m sorry, I was looking for…” The name escapes him for a moment. “For Jopson?” 

“Ah. He just stepped out for a moment to help with a minor wardrobe. He’ll be back shortly.” Francis gestures to the seat opposite him at the tiny table. “You might as well sit while you wait. He’ll have your head if you even try and get into one of these blasted things by yourself.” 

Going by the many layers Francis is wearing, James isn’t surprised. His costume is slightly less ratty than Hickey’s, but no less detailed. A billowing sleeved shirt tucked behind the tight fit of a waistcoat, and trousers that James knows have been specifically tailored with him in mind. James has yet to see his own costume first-hand, but he has no illusions that it’ll be any simpler, although he hopes it’ll be at least a fraction of as flattering. 

James tries to radiate confidence as he sinks into the seat. He’d left his own script out in the set, and he’s sorely regretting it now with nothing to occupy his hands and nothing to detract from the silence that lingers in the tiny fitting room like a ghost. Would conversation be unwelcome? Probably. James is going to attempt it anyway because he’ll be damned if he lets Francis fucking Crozier ruin his manners. 

Clearing his throat, he says, “Have many of the others arrived yet?”

Francis turns a page. “Hickey,” he says. “Although you probably bumped into him outside. Bridgens too, I believe. The ones who aren’t being filmed until later will probably take their time.” 

“And John?” James pauses and adds wryly, “Franklin, I mean.” 

Francis’s face is utterly unreadable. “Couldn’t be sure. Haven’t seen him.” 

Scrambling for a topic, James says, “He mentioned you were friends.” 

The drop in the atmosphere of the room is _palpable._ James feels as if he’s stuck his head into a tub of ice with absolutely no warning at all. Across the table, Francis looks up. “Did he now?” he asks tonelessly. 

James wished he knew precisely where he mistepped with such an innocuous question. “Offhandedly,” he says. Then, trying to salvage the situation, “He has a lot of respect for you.” 

Francis _snorts._ “Did he mention that too?” 

James is at a loss of how to answer that. Before he can even attempt it, the door cracks open again and a lean dark-haired man steps in, tired bags beneath his eyes as they land on James. “Oh,” he says. “There you are. I was told you arrived, but nobody mentioned you were _here_ here.” 

There’s a creak as Francis gets up from his chair, tucking his script beneath his arm. “Sort out what you needed to, Jopson?” 

Jopson looks up and gives Francis a genuine smile that baffles James something fierce. “Yes, thank you. I know you had better things to be doing than minding the fitting room.” 

“Not really,” Francis says. “You lot are the ones doing all the running around right now, I can sit uselessly in here just as well as I can anywhere else.” 

Jopson’s smile grows. “Thank you, anyway.” 

Francis inclines his head and then passes them both by on the way out the door. He doesn’t pause to say so much as a goodbye to James, and he watches him go with a frown, but he bites back the instinct to say something snide to his retreating back. 

He will _not_ go about cultivating a reputation of being difficult to work with on the very first day on set. Even if Francis shows no such qualms. 

Beside him, Jopson says, incredibly earnest, “Don’t mind it. He’s just like that. He’s a very good man, really.” 

James doubts that immensely, but he turns, twisting his frown into a warm smile and says, “Jopson, right? I’ve heard you have a costume for me.” 

\--

The first scene to be filmed is a small one. Just James, John, and Francis in a quaint set staged to look like the mayor’s office. John behind a mammoth of a desk, and James sitting across from him, Francis standing by an unlit fireplace that’ll be brightened in post. As far as first shoots go, it’s as auspicious as any, and James suspects that might have been part of the intention behind it. 

Scheduling aside, it’s always nice to start out slow and give everybody a chance to adjust to their characters without the pressure of deadlines looming over their back, and the challenge of coordinating a revolving cast. Compared to James’s recent films - where almost _all_ of his scenes were high-octane and energetic - this should feel like a pleasant reprieve. 

It does not. James is so incredibly aware of the camera crew behind his back, Ross directing the stage crew about with a singular focus. 

Across from him, John smiles pleasantly and says, voice soft, “It’s always nerve racking, isn’t it? The first shoot?” 

John Franklin does not look nerve racked. He looks grandfatherly and affable, as he does most of the time. James smiles at him regardless. “Exciting, perhaps.” 

The last of the chatter behind them drops away sharply. By the mock fireplace, Francis slouches, leaning against the brick facade with purpose. James swallows and turns his attention back to John. 

“Ready?” Ross calls. “Three, two, one - action!” 

John slams a hand to the desktop, loud enough that James would have winced if he hadn’t been waiting for it. “For god sakes, I’ve told you before, the answer is no!” he snaps. All of the familial kindness has bled from the lines of his face. “How many times must we go over this?” 

In the back, deliberately barely visible to the cameras, Francis rumbles, “As many as it’ll take for you to see reason, Cedric.” 

Scowling, John looks to James and says, “I would have expected better from _you._ He’s dragged you into this madness now?” 

James straightens up, hands clutching the arms of his chair as if offended, opens his mouth, and says… nothing. His mind goes blank for just a moment, but it’s a moment too long - the silence stretching like taffy in the dead quiet set. 

“Cut!” Ross calls, and James sits still as stone, baffled, as a pit slowly begins to yawn open in his stomach.

He turns to look at Ross. “I’m so sorry,” he says, as he fumbles for an excuse that isn’t more embarrassing than the act itself had been. “I must be - I must be rustier than I thought.” 

Ross barely seems bothered, just smiling at him encouragingly. “It’s the first shoot of the day! Frankly, I’d be amazed if we got off with only one hiccup. Don’t stress. Let’s go again, shall we?” 

Stiffly, James turns around to face John again, who gives him a smile even more encouraging than Ross, if possible. “Now that you’ve taken the first flub, the rest of us can relax,” he jokes, and James smiles weakly before settling back and taking a deep breath. 

He’s a professional. One missed line won’t shake him. Not even if it’s the first in the whole fucking show. 

Ross calls for action again, and John’s hand hits the desk. He and Francis bicker back and forth, and this time when James’s cue arrives, he says, “It’s not _madness,_ Cedric. I just think that perhaps we might consider that nobody knows the woods outside of Erebus better than Isaac.” 

John scoffs. “How well can somebody who hasn’t so much as left his house in years know of the world outside his front door?” 

“Cut!” Ross calls, and James sags in a truly embarrassing amount of relief. “Much better, flawless, in fact. Moving onto the next shot, please.” 

James and the others sit patiently where they are as the camera crew rotates around to their fresh angles. John takes the opportunity to quietly say to him, “Feeling better? You don’t look so off colour now, at least.” 

“I’m fine,” James assures him. 

John smiles kindly. “We all have awkward starts. It’s not a problem is it, Francis?” 

James glances over his shoulder, but Francis is stony faced. “Only so long as you’re not using it as an excuse for ineptitude,” he says. “Be careful of which is which.” 

James and John stare at him for a moment, but before James can think of anything to respond with their attention is called back by Ross. “Everybody ready?” 

James hurries to face forward once more, ignoring the sharp needles Francis’s words have left pricking at his skin. Ross counts them in, and then there’s the familiar snap of the clapperboard. 

With only a moment to make sure everybody is settled, Francis says, “The darkness is getting thicker every year. At this rate, we might as well just put out all our lights and wait for it to consume us.” 

“Hysteria, Isaac. That’s all you ever bring to the people. It will be many years yet before that’s a problem we have to worry about,” says John. “What proof do you have of this?” 

Francis’s head nods towards James with more genuine respect than James has ever earned off set. “Ask him.” 

James drops his expression into something sympathetic and imploring, leaning forward to put a hand gently on top of the desk before him. “Those of us who live near the edge of the woods feel the shadows creeping closer every day,” he says, soft and earnest. “The whole town has noticed. I -” _fuck._ We. The line was _we._ Over John’s shoulder, he can see the minute narrowing of Ross’s eyes that indicate he’d heard the slip. Still, James continues without so much as pausing, giving no indication he’d made a mistake, “can barely sleep at night in case I wake to find it's grown thicker while I slept.” 

“Conjecture,” John says dismissively. “There is still _time.”_

“Only if we act now,” Francis insists, stepping forward neatly from the fireplace, placing one hand on the back of James’s chair. His fingertips brush James’s shoulder, just slightly. “Cedric, you’re too smart to act so stupid.” 

“Cut,” Ross calls as the scene comes to an end. He’s not looking at them, eyes on something on the camera, fingers tucked beneath his chin, considering. It’s quite a moment as he watches a replay. He says something to the camera operator beside him who nods, and then he looks up and smiles. “Reset, let’s go again, okay?” 

He doesn’t say it, but James knows it’s because of him. The pit in his stomach grows, and with it so does the mortification he can feel sinking its claws into him like a beast. 

There’s the smooth sound of Francis’s expensive waistcoat rustling as he returns to his starting mark, the absence at James’s shoulder as he takes his touch with him. John straightens his pristine coat, but when he tries to meet James’s eye, James avoids it as politely as he can manage. 

Two fuck ups in less than ten minutes. Lovely. He’s off to a _brilliant_ start.

“Action!” Ross calls, and, uneasy, James wills himself back into character.

\--

In the end, Ross puts them through that same scene four times before he’s satisfied with the take. The scenes that follow it aren’t much better. Twice, James is gently corrected in his reading and in his position to the camera, and he handles both with grace, but the burn of it against his pride is harsher than an open flame. 

James has been acting for fifteen years - nearly ten of them in Hollywood. There is no excuse for this kind of performance from him.

After what feels like far too long, Ross dismisses them with a cheery smile that does not match the mess James is certain he’s made on the man’s cameras. “Take a brief break and we’ll move onto the next scene soon. Good work all around, everybody.” 

He claps James on the shoulder even though John is standing nearer, and James is not so dumb as to not realise he’s trying to be encouraging, which only means Ross noticed the drop in James’s mood, or his acting had been even more dismal than he’d thought. Neither possibility fills him with joy. 

After Ross returns to the crew, Francis peels away immediately, heading to the chairs arranged loosely by the catering table. James watches him go for a moment before John pulls his attention back by a gentle clearing of his throat. 

“You really did fine today, James,” he says. “You’re overthinking it and making yourself nervous.” 

James stares at him. He knows it was meant as a reassurance, but the implication that James’s acting earlier had been ‘fine’ hits a tender part of him he didn’t know was laid bare. Going into this, James had not necessarily thought people would have high expectations for his acting, not when he’d spent the last five years locked in _Flagship Falling_ , but he’d been willing - is _still_ willing - to prove them wrong. 

_Fine,_ John had said. Like ‘fine’ is the best James can offer, and he should aim for no higher. 

“James?” John’s brows are drawn together in concern. “Are you -?” 

“I’m _fine,”_ James says, and the word tastes foul on his tongue. He struggles to pull out the smile he only uses in the direst of circumstances and adds, “I think I’ll get some water. Clear my head before the next shoot.” 

John looks like he’s about to offer to come with him, but - thankfully - somebody calls his name behind them. James books it the moment his back is turned, heading towards the end of the catering table set with a water cooler. It’s only after he’s pried loose a plastic cup to fill that he realises he’d been so fixated on preoccupying himself that he hadn’t noticed he’d wound up right beside Francis. 

Francis glances up from the book he has open and James pauses, one hand on the cooler tap, before he thinks to offer him a polite smile before looking away, too short of patience to attempt conversation he now knows is useless for anything other than driving them both up the wall. 

Shocking him, Francis says, “You’re making it worse, you know.” 

James pauses, cup only half full, and looks at him blankly. He’s so taken aback by Francis speaking to him at all that it takes him a moment to say, “Sorry?” 

Francis sighs, straightening up and dropping the book he has on his knee onto the tabletop. “Your fuck ups, I mean.” 

James clenches his teeth, reminds himself this man is, however obnoxious, an integral part of the British acting community and he himself is _not,_ and says, “What is that supposed to mean?” 

“Oh, don’t get bitchy,” Francis says. “I’m not criticising you.” 

Bitchy. _Bitchy._ James Fitzjames has not been bitchy a day in his life. “Then what _do_ you mean?” 

Francis leans back, folding his hands behind his head, chair creaking gently beneath him. “You’re too conscious of making it difficult for everybody else when you make a mistake,” he says. “Don’t worry about us. We can’t do anything about it, no matter how many times you spit out the wrong line. Worry about yourself, that’s the only useful thing you can do.” 

James stares at him. Around them, people chatter cheerfully, oblivious. “Is that supposed to be encouraging?” 

Francis snorts. “It’s not supposed to be anything other than a fact,” he says. “If you need to shoot the scene ten times in order to get it right, so be it. There’s no point fretting over how it looks to everybody else, or you’ll just make it twenty takes instead.” He gets to his feet, picking his book up from the table and holding it out to James who is so startled he takes it on reflex alone. “You know your lines, and you know how to act. Stop overthinking it and go calm down. I feel like I’m going to get a heart attack just looking at you, Jesus.” 

He turns, striding away and leaving James alone by the catering table, half cup of water in one hand and book in the other. When his brain comes online enough to look down, he discovers it’s a cheap paperback romance novel, the kind one might find on a grocery store shelf. There’s a dog-eared page about halfway through. 

Utterly bemused, James gingerly sinks into Francis’s abandoned seat. Wherever he’s gone, James can’t see him anymore, but he _can_ see John eyeing him from across the set and with little else to appear busy with, he cracks the book open. 

Twenty minutes later, when they’re called for their next scene, James has read approximately twenty-three pages, and is surprised to find he’s thought not at all about the show or what he’s about to shoot. 

When he shuffles onto the crowded set - the mayor’s office again - Francis eyes him speculatively. James waits for him to say something, but he just turns away without a word, eyes forward towards the cameras, and James follows his lead, settling onto his mark before Ross can call him for him. On the way past, John pats him consolingly on the shoulder, but James barely notices. 

“Alright,” Ross says, clapping his hands. “Last scenes for the office location. We all warmed up and ready to go? James, it’ll be your monologue first, all good?” 

To his surprise, James finds he is. He breathes deeply and offers Ross a reassuring smile. “Ready when you are,” he says.

Ross’s voice is even and brisk as he counts them in, clapperboard waiting for the snap. “Three, two, one -” 

James opens his mouth and this time his mind is not blank. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all the lovely comments thus far! Posting in a new fandom, especially a tiny one, is always nerve racking, but I'm glad that there are other people out there interested in this very, very indulgent AU lmao. 
> 
> twitter: @doingwritebyme  
> tumblr: glenflower


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